Letters to Home
by Tina95
Summary: "My home is not a place, it is people." Lois McMaster Bujold. During the Great Hiatus. Sherlock Holmes has said that he picked up his pen to write to Watson several times. This is my version of what he wrote. No slash! Chapter One up!
1. Prologue

**A/N: Well, this is just a prologue. What do you think? Should I continue it or stop now? Rated for room to work from.**

**Prologue:  
**_June 1896_

Sherlock Holmes knelt in his room, poring through his belongings. It was not often that he took the time to look back upon his career and see where it had started and where it had taken him. But today, he was revisiting a time which he had, above all else, wanted to forget. Every time he looked back upon the years of 91-94, he remembered those lonely days, constantly on the run, forced to hide his own identity from the world. Above all, he remembered being unable to share that he had survived. He remembered thinking of Watson and wondering how his friend was carrying on while he was gone. He remembered the terrible sense of guilt upon finding out seven months late of the death of Mary Watson.

Shaking himself back to the present, he carefully peered into his relics from the time. A collection of papers, tied together by cheap string, caught his attention. He recognized it at once, a stack of letters he had written but never sent. Each one was nearly complete but he had refused to risk the dangers of Watson knowing he was alive.

Filled with a sudden desire, he untied the twine and put it aside. He glanced at the first one, dated May 4, 1891. That, he recalled, was the day he had finally brought about the defeat of Professor Moriarty, the day he had gone into hiding from the world. Cocking his head towards the door, he recalled that Watson had gone out for the day and would not return until late that night. He had plenty of time and no case to be working on, so he went to the sitting room and sat into his armchair by the fire. Looking back at the first letter, he began to read, feeling himself plunge into the memories of the past.


	2. 1 May 4, 1891

**A/N: Chapter One takes place right after the events of FINA. This is my take on what happened later that night.**

**Chapter One:  
**_May 4, 1891_

Sherlock Holmes curled up in a settee in his new hotel room. It was finished. The Napoleon of Crime was defeated, lay in the watery tomb they had both threatened to fall in, that everyone thought they'd both fallen in. His mind drifted back to early that day, when he'd hid from view. Watson's calls rang through his head, sounding as though he was still in the room. The man shuddered slightly. It was hard, so hard, to keep from calling back to his friend. But it had to be done. No one was to know he was alive. Members of Moriarty's gang had not been round-up. Colonel Moran in particular knew that he had won. He could not afford to allow any other to come after him. Nor could he return to Baker Street until he was sure everyone would be safe. That meant a prolonged stay out of the country, until he could be sure Moran and others had stopped looking for him or could be assured that they would be caught if he returned.

He sighed, realizing he would have to get provisions from somewhere. Penniless as he was now, he would be unable to survive for long abroad. It meant contact with someone trustable and who would be willing to provide for him. _Watson,_ his mind insisted immediately. Just as quickly, he dismissed the thought. Watson would never hesitate to do such, but it meant involving him in the truth. He could not, for fear that Moran would find out. With the late Professor resting at the bottom of Reichenbach Falls, he was the most dangerous man in London and would quickly and remorselessly remove any threat to his freedom. Watson would never knowingly let anyone know, but he needed his friend to remain safe; he'd a family to look after. The world too must be convinced he perished, which could best be achieved by his biographer's story of what happened. However much he wished, he could not afford to tell Watson. Mycroft then.

Making up his mind, the man got up and took a piece of foolscap, along with a pen. He sat at the table, thought for a while, and then composed a relatively simple message, informing his brother that he had survived the fight with Moriarty, was on the run, and needed money to support him while he lived in exile. Finishing with a terse note not to tell Watson he'd lived, the detective signed the letter with an odd, detached feeling. Searching deeper, he realized it was a hint of guilt. Guilt in not letting his friends know he'd survived. Guilt in ordering Mycroft to do the same. While he rested here, he was sure Watson was grieving, blaming himself for falling returning back to their hotel and allowing Holmes to face the professor alone and perishing in the attempt. The pain his friend felt, he knew, would not be easily dismissed. Holmes tried to ignore the feeling but it refused to back down, prodding his conscious with annoying persistence.

Without even realizing what his body was doing, he pulled out another sheet of foolscap.

_My Dear Watson, _he wrote, wondering what he was going to say. How does one inform a friend that one has not died but faked death to keep him safe? Watson had every right to be furious. Perhaps he ought to just write, without thinking of the reception. Or, work in an explanation. He kept writing.

_Firstly, I would like to apologize. Indeed, I did survive the events at Reichenbach and brought about the end of Professor Moriarty. You have every right to be furious at me for not letting you know, for putting you through a time when you thought I was dead. But let me explain._

_It was for your own good, the good of you and your family. I knew that Moriarty was not the only man to have escaped the carefully lain trap. He was bound to have at least one lieutenant remaining, to complete the job if he was unable to finish. I would not risk you knowing. You have a family to care for. Nevertheless, I thought you might want to know-_

_What am I doing?_ Holmes wondered. _Sending this letter would simply delete all purpose of keeping him safe, my original intention._ He very nearly threw the paper into the fire but instead, he kept writing.

_I am well. I have found a new lodging and I believe I ought to stay away for a while. If I return to London, Moriarty's men will come after me and probably you as well. __I can accept any harm done to myself but I cannot bring myself to risk you.__ So, at least for now, I must stay away. If not for your sake, then for Mary's, for my return will put your whole family at risk._

_Instead, I intend to visit new countries. There are so many places unseen and unaccounted for in this world. Perhaps I can make sense of some of these before returning. But I shall return. When the rest of Moriarty's men have been rounded up, when it is safe to rejoin life in London, I shall return home to Baker Street._

_Please, my dear fellow, keep to yourself news of my survival. I am fine. Try to convince the world that I am gone, won't you? I have always scoffed at your florid memoirs, I'll admit, but now this seems like a place when they will come in handy. Write a story. Tell them of the sad demise of Sherlock Holmes. The sooner the world is convinced that I have been lost, the sooner they will forget. The sooner I will come home._

_Take care, my dear Watson._

Here he stopped. There was nothing to write. He would never send this; he could not risk Watson knowing. From first hand experience, Holmes knew that his friend was open like a book, making him a valuable companion but a terrible liar. Before long, the world would know and the late professor's men would be on his trail like wolves.

Sighing, the man fidgeted with his pen. Writing the letter alleviated his guilt slightly. It was an explanation, at least. However, if he were to be honest with himself, he knew Watson would not know of his plan. The man picked up the piece of foolscap, turning to throw it into the fire. It was better for everyone if he got rid of the evidence. Still, something stopped him.

Frowning, wondering whether he was being foolish and sentimental, Holmes turned away from the fire and carefully folded it and tucked it away. He would hold onto it, he decided. Who knows how it might be used. Maybe someday, he would let his friend read it, let him know what he had gone through, how hard it was to stay away. Deep down, he knew he would never reveal this, even if Moran was caught, for it contained a decent amount of weakness, but he could not bring himself to release the words to the fire. It was his one link to his friend, to the rest of society. He trusted Mycroft, but his brother was as much of a stranger to society as he was. It was his Watson who constructed the bridge from him to the rest of the world, who had given him most of his clients through those memoirs, who had torn down the wall blocking him from everyone else. And now it was his Watson whom he would not, could not, communicate to.

Getting up, he moved back towards the settee and sat down. For a while, he simply stared into the depths of the fire as his body slowly relaxed, as his mind cleared. Then, he went downstairs and gave the letter addressed for Mycroft to the man at the desk. Until a reply came, he ought not move, he knew. Even his brother, for all of his distant connections, would have trouble tracking him down.

"Please send this as soon as possible," he told the man.

"Certainly, Mr. Wilson," the man responded, using the name the detective had picked for himself.

Turning around, reminded of reality by the usage of another name, the man who had once been called Sherlock Holmes returned to his room. He must not slip. He must, at least for the present, suppress the man he had once been. He must alter himself. He glanced at the bed and decided not to get too comfortable. He had some thinking to do and perhaps some nightmares to fend off. Nightmares that belonged to his previous life, that he could not permit into this new one. It too was a relic of the old days, which he, however reluctantly, would have to be parted from.

Sliding back onto the chair by the fire, he wondered sadly why the victory against Professor Moriarty held only the atmosphere of a terrible loss.


End file.
